Before Dawn
by Dropsofarainbow219
Summary: A growing together post-mockingjay fic. Katniss struggles with loss and overcoming depression with the aid of Peeta. Themes of suicide, recovery, love and lust- oh screw this. I suck at descriptions. Please just read my fic. Note: I don't own the Hunger Games
1. Chapter 1- Dusk

**Chapter 1- Dusk**

By the time he finds me my tears have already dried out.

Why? Why did she have to go? And where?

It's from the laboring in my nights that comes the exhaustion in my days. I never rest. The task of mourning for so many dead never ends.

But my Primrose, my sweet, loving, kind Prim, returns to me every night, before the cruel, cold reality that is now my life demands that she is torn away from me again. So in effect, every morning is just like the first.

Where? And why? There is no anger left in me- I just don't have the energy anymore. Maybe it would be easier if Snow or Coin was still alive, in a way. Then at least I would have something to fight for.

But there is no one left to die.

Peeta approaches me slowly- as if he is worn out, physically tired from the journey it took to find me. Which I suppose might be accurate as I didn't exactly leave a note in my haste to escape the suffocating darkness of my house. His face is flushed, pink cheeked with the same blush as the little boy I used to catch watching me in school wore. But the expressions there can no longer be compared to that of a boy's.

He sits down heavily beside me, and we quietly watch the rippling water of The Lake undulate. How peaceful it must be to be something other than alive, I think to myself. How simple.

"Are you cold?" he asks. His voice is rough and textured, the way it always is in the mornings. It's strange how I find this odd piece of detail marginally comforting. Routine, says a voice in my head. You see him every day.

It's true. Every morning both he and Greasy Sae come over, bearing offerings of food and attempts to turn my huge cold kitchen into a warm, conversational display. The first time he came I nearly tripped down the stairs in shock. How domestic, how normal they made it seem. And I guess, after a while, I began to accept it. That they had to try.

"No." I tell Peeta, even though I am cold. When I ran here, before dawn, I was a fish racing to the surface of the water, and I hadn't thought to get dressed in anything other than my thin dressing gown and a rough, worn shawl, both hardly sufficing as a match for the biting cool air of dawn in Twelve.

I pick at a piece of moss with my fingernail as his eyes trace the line of goose bumps down my arm, only looking up when I see him begin to shrug out of his jacket and hand it to me. I start to protest, but the look in his eyes silences me. I let him drape the thing around my shoulders.

The silence bears down on us, heavy and muffling, like a huge damp cloth snuffing out any hopes of conversation. If we were once allies, friends even, it sure doesn't feel like it. It feels like everything has been sucked out of us, a broken corpse and a lost boy who cannot possibly save her again, and I close my eyes, because my head begins to hurt when I think about us too much. There is nothing left, though; that I am sure of, because even if he loved me, the Katniss he fell in love with is gone. She died in the fires that consumed her sister, and for the love of God I cannot summon any of the fire that was hers. She's gone.

Eventually Peeta rises to his feet, sighing deeply. "I should get back now." He hesitates. "Are you coming?" I look up at him blankly. "Katniss," he exhales shakily. "You're gonna freeze to death if you don't go inside."

"Oh." I get up, my body slumping like a rag doll's, and follow him. It's no big deal. I can just come back out when he's gone.

We walk in silence for the most part, with the exception of the thundering racket that has become customary whenever Peeta is in the woods. He occasionally glances at me, but with concern or exasperation I can't tell.

We eventually reach the fence, the broken thing that really serves no purpose now other than a reminder of what used to be. _What used to be_. What used to be was something better, and like the aftertaste of lemons, all I can really remember is how sweet the good parts were. Maybe we weren't happy then, not happy at all, but we were something better.

Peeta awkwardly works his way through the hole in the fence, and after we are both through, our little trip is essentially over. Back to sitting by the window in the tall cushioned chair, slowly rotting away inside the big shell that is my Victor's mansion.

We don't have much company, despite the few neighbours that were forced to move in. There simply wasn't anywhere else still intact after the bombing, and they took the care to choose houses as far away from us as possible. The monsters may be dead, but the fear isn't.

When we reach the Victor's village, Peeta sends me one last fleeting look, before making his way back to his own house, to bake or whatever the hell he does. I can't bring myself to go back into mine though, so I stand there, lost and confused, waiting for the breeze to blow me away like the dust swirling silently down the pavement. A movement in the corner of my vision catches my eye – a broken bottle lying between the daisies has caught the sun just right. Haymitch.

I haven't talked to him since we got back here for the first time. Something nudges me forward, telling me to go check on him.

I make my way up the dirtied path that leads up to his house, not bothering to knock on the door before letting myself in. The moment I make it past the threshold the stench of rot and alcohol and other vile things that I don't want to think about hits me like a brick wall. I hold my breath and beg my empty stomach to stop heaving.

It seems like everything in the house is wearing a coat of dust, and when I enter the lounge I see dirty plates cluttered everywhere, along with countless empty bottles. Haymitch is not doing well.

I spot him slumped down on an armchair in the corner, dead to the world, knife still clutched relentlessly in his fist. So much for babysitting us, I think as my eyes scan the room, totally unsure of what I should do. I sigh and reach for a jug of water, simply because it's all I know.

This should be fun.

I walk over to him and carefully stand at the side furthest from his knife, before pouring the entire contents onto him. The water rushes down his form, and he starts with a shout, brandishing his knife around pointlessly. "Aaaaargh!" he cries when he sees me, and then he collapses back into the armchair, muttering a string of expletives not so quietly.

"Hey." I say, kicking his foot. "Thought you were supposed to be looking after us."

"As if you need looking after." He scoffs, but then his eyes roam through my tangled hair, my dirtied nightdress. "Go bother the boy," he says after a moment. "Bet he'd love to take my job."

I'm angry all of a sudden, really angry, and familiarity of the emotion rises up through me easily, as if it's being welcomed home after all those weeks of absence. How can he just sit there, drinking, as if nothing has changed?! I grab a dirtied plate to my left and hurl it at the wall, its smash and Haymitch's expressionless eyes only egging me on. "What is your PROBLEM?!" I scream, taking another plate and throwing it across the room. "We're DYING HAYMITCH, I'm DYING! Don't you even CARE?" This time I take a full bottle of booze in an attempt to provoke him, and fling it at the wall, watching the shards of glass and drink explode against the wall.

"They're dead." I croak, and then, just like that, the fierceness is gone, and I'm standing there panting and empty-handed, avoiding my Mentor's eyes. I bite my lip and storm out of the house, not bothering to close the door behind me.

It's not really Haymitch I'm angry at. I know that. But I can't exactly throw dirty bottles at myself. I exhale roughly and ease open the brightly painted door of my house. I don't bother locking it. Like I told myself before, the only danger is inside, not out.

I walk over to the Kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, wondering briefly where Haymitch gets all his liquor before I weakly scold myself. What a hypocrite.

As I turn around to lean back against the counter I feel a pair of eyes watching me, and I look up to find Peeta staring at me from behind a window in his house, those blue eyes burning bright against the shadows of late morning. They flit away, embarrassed, once I catch them, but I do not remove my own gaze. I intently study his dirtied apron, his rolled back sleeves, the freckles of green and blue and brown in his hair. Not baking. Painting.

He turns away, but the shadows conceal him immediately and I cannot see where he is going or why he was watching me. I sigh and take a long sip from my glass, watching the way the light hits the water.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Prim. My little duck is standing, alive, so very alive and well, across the plaza. I begin to walk across the stone desert towards her, where she leans over, tending to the sick. I can feel my heart pounding, racing with disbelief and elation, when I see the beast. It's huge, ugly and monstrous, the very personification of horror. The mutt begins to charge towards her, towards my Prim before I've even had a chance to talk to her, fangs bared, blood streaming down its jaw. No! I think. No, not again, please! I'm running, but the air has become as thick as mud and I can't reach her, I just can't. A terror like no other seizes me, a jagged electric chill washing through me, and the mutt is upon her and she turns-

"Aaaaaagh!" I open my eyes and bolt up, fisting the duvet in my sweaty hands under my knees. "PRIM!" I scream. "Priiimm?!" I see nothing but darkness, and as I register the tears streaming down my face, I remember. "Oh!" I gasp. "Oh!"

I can't stay in this room, in this bed a moment longer. Death is leaning into me on all sides, like the fog in the Quarter Quell, and I bury my wet face in my hands, stifling my wails with my palms.

I scramble up and out of the clutches of the duvet, running barefooted through to the attached bathroom. I turn the lights on – vainly hoping that the haunted images reeling through my mind can be as easily dismissed as the darkness- but the bright, artificial glare only exposes my red, blotchy face, with the hair of a madwoman.

I let out a shaky breath as I tear my eyes away from the mirror, fighting the oncoming hyperventilating. Not real, Katniss. Not real.

But the woman in the mirror is real, and so is her madness; those crazed eyes, puffy and bruised from nightmares, swiveling helplessly as she grasps onto the edge of the sink, cold sweat running down her spine. I'm worse than Peeta was, I think. I'm worse than everything.

Choking, I turn on the tap and reach down to splash the cold water over my face. I suddenly realise how thirsty I am, and begin to gulp down the water greedily from my cupped hands, nearly coughing in my eagerness. I towel my wet face and turn back to the bedroom, avoiding the mirror's cool gaze.

When I enter the bedroom, I notice a peek of sunshine filtering in across the edge of the bed and blink. Dawn.

I'm momentarily confused, because normally my nightmares occur earlier in the night, but clearly not today. At that moment I hear a steady thumping across the hallway, and turn just in time to see Peeta, gently knocking and swinging his head round the door.

"Katniss?" he says. "I finished baking and saw your light on." His eyes scan over my red-rimmed eyes, wild hair and thin nightgown. "Are you okay?"

"What?" I ask, confused. I push a piece of hair away from my face and cross my ankles over nervously. "Yes- I'm fine."

He says nothing, just pierces me with those blue, blue eyes, so wide and vibrant and deep. I feel like I'm dreaming, dazed but not unhappy. No, this is no bad dream. Not anymore. There is Peeta, and right there is the sun.

"I brought breakfast." He offers after a moment of silence. "Would you like to eat with me?"

My heart is beating and his eyes are warm, so I say yes and walk over to him. He pauses, ever so slightly, and then picks up an unwashed cardigan strewn across the sofa chair and wraps it round my shoulders.

I follow him down the stairs, and the scent of bread trails after him with me.

**Author's note:**

**Hi! So I kinda didn't want to write a post-mockingjay fic at first because there are already so many amazing ones out there, but then one night I just sat down and this just sort of happened. I've got a fair bit of this already written so hopefully I'll be able to upload soon.**** Anyway, thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2- Knives

**Chapter Two- Knives**

**Author's note:**

**Chapter 2! Now, just as a warning, this chapter is a wee bit heavy, and there are themes of suicide that feature prominently, so if you're quite sensitive to that stuff I recommend skipping over this. It's nothing particularly explicit or anything, just a little dark.**

**This chapter isn't perfect, but I figure that sometimes one can be too much of a perfectionist, so here it is. This is probably one of the darkest parts of this fic- afterwards I promise things will start to lighten up.**

I sit down at the kitchen table and watch silently as Peeta starts to un-package the large plastic bag in front of me.

"Sae can't join us today, by the way. Her niece just came back, so I said I'd take care of everything." He looks up at me. "Is that ok?"

I shrug.

He pulls out two loaves of bread and some intricate-looking pastries with fancy icing on them, but I bow my head and stare down at my bare feet. He can't know how pastries remind me of the bakery. How they remind me of Prim.

"Do you bake all night?" I say, and my voice is cracked and dull. I feel like the sound of it disturbs the silence I've become so well-acquainted with. Peeta must too, because his head snaps up in surprise and he looks at me, his gaze heavy on my skin.

"Yes." He says after a moment. "A lot." He doesn't need to say anymore. I know.

He produces four cheesebuns from his magic bag then, and places them in front of me. I feel my heart miss a beat. The last time I had one of these we were still in Twelve, before the Quell, before the war. I'm surprised at how vividly my mind floods with memories- moments that were so fearful and pained then, and so bitter-sweet now. Meeting Bonnie and Twill in the woods. Making plans to run away. Kissing Gale after he was whipped. Peeta sketching in the plant book. Prim.

I look down at them, saying nothing.

"You remembered." I croak out eventually, and I look up to find his eyes trained on me, an unfathomable expression across his features.

"Yes," he says after a moment. "I…I remember a lot." He says the last part quietly, but I know that he means for me to hear it.

He begins to eat, and I take one of the cheesebuns in my hands and shift it from palm to palm, before tearing off a small golden chunk and bringing it to my lips. I can feel his gaze on me, and I hesitate, before tentatively taking it in my mouth and beginning to chew.

It tastes just the same. As good as I remembered it, if not better. The soft, fluffy bread melts in my mouth, and to my shock, I feel my eyes begin to well up.

My vision of the oven becomes blurry as I beg the tears not to fall, but they do, and I turn my head away from Peeta so that he can't see.

He's at my side in a moment, although he seems almost ridiculously conscious of not touching me. "Katniss, what's wrong?" he asks desperately, and I drop my head into my arms, hiding my face from the world.

Get out! I want to scream. Go away, please, if only for a moment. I can't do this front of him. I can't.

"Katniss…" I feel a hesitant hand at the base of my neck, rubbing in what I think is supposed to be a reassuring manner. But this just makes me cry harder, ugly, naked sobs wracking up through my chest, because my Peeta would not have touched me like this. My Peeta would have gathered me up in his safe, warm arms and pulled me into his lap. He would have pressed kisses into my hair and murmured sweet nothings that weren't nothing, and that would have calmed the world for me, that could have warmed the cold abyss that is now my heart.

But this man is no longer my Peeta, and I can never be his Katniss.

"Katniss, I'm sorry, I never meant to-"

"Please." I find my voice then, and interrupt him before he can say anything else I don't want to hear. "Stop."

I don't know what I'm asking of him anymore, but somehow, he must. Because despite all of my expectations, I feel one of those gentle, warm arms encircle my shoulders, and my body goes rigid at his touch.

_Thank you_, I prayer silently, tears pouring down my face. _My God, thank you_.

Peeta doesn't say anything, and he doesn't need to. There is nothing to be said. No pitiful promises to be made, no white lies to be cooed. But I'm okay with that. I'm glad.

My sobs have died down and I relish in the feel of his touch. It's not like this is the first time we've touched since the war exactly, but it feels closer, and then I realize that this is the first time since he arrived in District 13 that Peeta has seen me cry.

I take in a deep, shuddery breath and slowly sit up, not bothering to hide my swollen eyes from him. Loathe as I am to doing so, I still awkwardly extricate myself from his arms, avoiding those pitiful blue eyes.

"I should get dressed."

I can feel his concerned gaze follow me as I disappear around the corner.

On step at a time. One foot in front of the other. I only make it to my bedroom before I crumple down on the floor, my back pressed up against the cool, smooth surface of the wooden cabinet. I stare ahead, watching the dust motes swim through the sunlight.

There is some rustling and thumping downstairs, and I assume Peeta has gone. But a few moments later I hear a knock at my door, and I look up to see a pair of wide blue eyes.

"Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were ok." He says, but begins to frown as his eyes run up and down my haggard form, still clad with my nightgown from breakfast. "Katniss," he says, coming over to crouch down in front of me. "Are you ok?"

NO! A part of me wants to scream. Of course I'm not ok! Not now, not ever! But the more dominant part of me, so heavy that I am forced to collapse in corner under its weight, is just sitting there, tasting that word. Okay? What does it mean anymore, to be okay?

I'm not okay. I'm ill. I'm sad and broken and torn. I'm a poor, mad girl from District Twelve who has just lost her sister and most of her friends. I will never be okay.

But instead of telling Peeta any of this, I just whisper, "Yes."

His eyes run over me once more, and he sighs.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" I shake my head and he eventually stands up, walking over to the door. "Katniss, I…" he pauses, one hand resting on the edge of the door, his mouth parted as he hesitates.

But he doesn't say it. He closes his mouth and tells me he's just across the road if I need him, and then, with a forced smile, he's gone. Off to make more offensively- intricate pastries and paint paintings I'd rather forget.

I moan quietly and drop my head back against the cabinet, relishing in the sharp stab of pain that shoots through my skull.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Do you know what it's like? To be buried alive in your own pain? To drown in the memories of your loved ones dying, to be unable to move from the floor for the whole day, cemented to the ground in despair?

No one knows what it's like. Inexplicable it is- the pain is inexplicable. It's like someone poured acid down my throat, or smashed in my skull with a rock. It's like dying from thirst in a room full of people who have glasses of water in their hands. It's like being torn, limb from limb, by a pack of fanged nightmares. It's like being trapped awake on a surgeons table, utterly paralysed as they proceed to cut open my organs. It's like exploding.

There are a lot of ways to be in pain- a lot of ways to die. But I think sadness might be the worst of them all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Peeta comes back for dinner, I start screaming at him and eventually wind up shattering the ornaments arranged on top of the cabinet around his feet.

"Katniss, what's wrong?!" he yells at me as I reach for a clay statue of a horse. "Katniss, please talk to me!"

"Get out!" I scream, hurling the horse in his direction. "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The moment he finally leaves I feel my palms fall open to the ground, and without even a chance to catch my breath, I burst into tears.

I suppose it was coming on anyway. But this time my gasps are too shallow, too painful, and I find that I can't breathe. My head is pounding. There is a sharp stabbing sensation running up the center of my chest, and I clutch my middle, curling up into a defenseless ball as I rock back and forth.

I can't take it anymore. It's too much. Too much.

I think of the look on Peeta's face, the desperation and shock and pain in his voice when he called my name, asking me please stop, to talk to him, and I wail loudly, a shredded, heart-breaking,_ broken _sound keening out of me, tearing its way up through my throat. I think of Rue, and her mockingjay, the feel of her little heart thudding hopefully against mine as I held her beneath the fake stars. I think of her grin, eyes bright and young, and I can't help it when I think of the spear through her stomach, her quick breaths and trickling tears as her eyes latched onto mine with the light inside of them dying.

I think of Cinna, of the way he held me, grounded me, reassured me that everything would be okay. I think of his gold eyeliner and twinkling eyes and the approving nod of his head after I tried on one of his masterpieces. I think of the blood stains on his jacket.

I think of my Dad, the smell of pine and leather and happiness, of the kisses he exchanged with my mother and the ones he pressed to my chubby, and then hollow, cheeks. I think of his hands on mine as he positioned me with the bow that became me, and taught me how to shoot for the first time.

I think of his song voice, cutting through the woods like a shard of moonlight in the middle of day, like an arrow that pierced my mother's heart. I think of the coal dust that stained my ten-year-old fingertips as I kneeled over on that fateful day, reaching for my Dad through the ground, wanting him to hear my prayer, craving a piece of him back. _Oh Dad_, I think as I dig my teeth into the heels of my hands and feel saltwater trickle over my tongue…_If you could see your little girl now_.

And I think of Prim. Last of all, I think of my little duck, of the sister that stayed up all night with me, exchanging secrets beneath the holey covers, of the giggling baby that I tickled and sang to sleep when I was five, of the young women that I watched her mature into, with her gentle head held high, her kind eyes and her healing hands that brushed tears from my face. I think of the pink in her cheeks when she told me of her first crush, and the design for her wedding dress she drew and showed me at six, and I think of her laugh and blood on her pinafore, and of bombs and the recognition in her eyes before-

I'm sobbing so loudly I'm surprised I can hear myself think, but it still doesn't stop.

I think of Finnick, of Madge, of the Baker, of Boggs and Cressida and Mesalla and a little girl in a yellow coat, screaming and crying over her dead mother, clutching onto her collar before a streak of red cuts through her mid-wail. I'm thinking of everything, everything that I've seen and done- a landscape of tears and blood and unhappy endings- and then I'm thinking of nothing, nothing at all. Nothing but the inescapable agony.

My tears eventually subside, but the pain doesn't. It feels like a thousand blades, slicing through my lungs, a million tracker jackers planting poison in my heart, a hundred jabberjays screeching in my ears.

Nobody knows what it's like. No one ever realizes how much one person can hurt until they're in it.

I'm not afraid when I find my cheek pressed against the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. I'm not afraid when I slowly, but inevitably, crawl over to the edge of the bath.

Because when you already live in hell, it is not possible to fear death.

I reach over and twist the little knob on the sleek, silver tap, freeing the water to gush out in a roaring waterfall over the white plastic.

I stand up and pull my clothes off, stepping into the round, vast tub. I wait until the water laps over my ribs before reaching for the knife.

It still lies there, cold and unquestioning, from when I last pared off my fingernails at Greasy Sae's suggestion. I take it now, smoothing my fingertips over the metallic surface, examining the way it glints this way and that under the artificial light. _Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen_, it seems to whisper. _I thought we agreed not to lie to each other_.

My hand doesn't shake as I hold out my left arm, pale and translucent now. I ghost the knife edge over my wrist, right above where I can see a vein. It's funny how I always assumed pain left you right before the end. I always thought you were supposed to be numb.

But there is no such relief for me.

I press the knife down, sliding it across the length of my frail wrist.

Blood. That's the first thing I register. So much blood- and so bright. It trickles at first, leaving a vibrant, crimson path in its wake. And then it begins to stream, gush, pour out of the thin even line beneath my palm, down my arm, dripping onto my bare breasts, my stomach, my thighs, the bath water. Suddenly, I'm sitting in a mosaic of streaky scarlet.

And still my breathing is even.

The hand with the knife edges over to the painted flesh of my arm once more and teasingly traces a path parallel to the first. Isn't there another way?

I close my eyes.

"Katniss…" I shudder as I hear my Father's voice, luring me back into a distant memory, one so far away and jarring I thought it to be lost. I'm sitting on the ground beneath a yellow and bronze- leafed tree, weeping ashamed and angry tears into the muddied roots and my cracked hands. "Katniss," comes my Father's voice again. He is crouching in front of me, a hand on my shoulder and the other under my chin, beckoning me to meet his eyes. "Katniss, my love, don't cry." He says, and I look up to the softest, purest grey eyes I've ever seen in my whole life. The sun is cracking over my shoulder, and the amber light hits us just right, so that I can actually see the black rims around his irises, the distinct eclipse of his pupils.

We'd been hunting all night, for this winter we were famished, and there was nothing left to eat. The mines had been closed for over two weeks due to a recent accident with the lift, and that meant no pay. No pay and no food.

My Father had taken me hunting, deciding he could at least provide a distraction for one of his daughters from being hungry, but we'd found little. The animals were scarce- having either already disappeared into hibernation or from hiding from the sharp wind inside their little warm burrows- and despair had been thick in our throats. Until five minutes ago.

My Father had spotted a deer, a whole round deer, plump and bright. A deer that size could have fed us for weeks, let alone buy us all the bread we needed! My Father had raised his bow to shoot- he was the best shot in the whole of Panem- and was just about to send the arrow flying when I stumbled and fell backwards, startling the deer and chasing it into the undergrowth, out of our reach. My Father's arrow went flying a second too late, and instead of striking the animal that would have saved our lives, it struck the empty, fruitless trunk of a tree.

"Oh, Katniss," says my Father, brushing away a strand of damp hair and pressing his thumb against a tear. "You're forgiven. You're a million times forgiven. I love you."

I open my eyes. The bright light causes me to blink fervently, and my breathing is now laboured. Oh, Dad.

My gaze drops to the steel edge still pressed against my arm, and this time it is not my Father's voice I hear, but my own. I'm on that beach again, the one in the Quarter Quell, and there is a presence behind me.

"I do," I hear myself say as the cerulean ocean laps up onto my feet. "I need you."

_I need you_**. **The seconds tick by, and then something in my chest flutters ever so slightly.

And I know.

I push myself up out of the bath, the still water suddenly splitting and crashing over the sides boisterously to let me through, and I drop the knife behind me with a- splash! - as I stand. Water drips down from my naked body as I cross the room, covering every tile in evidence, but I don't care. I grab the nearest towel and press it hard against my wrist, tying it off as tightly as I can. I then stumble weakly into my room, collapsing on the bed and wrapping myself up in duvet to dry me off. I feel so tired though, and before I can do more, a certain darkness draws me in and claims me.

When I wake I'm damp and cold, and there is an unrelenting throbbing in my left arm. I blink, trying to adjust to my surroundings when I feel the fluffy surface of the towel. _Oh_. I grind my teeth together as an onslaught of memories rush back to me.

I push myself up in a strained motion and slowly unravel my make-shift bandage. It hurts, something I didn't notice at the time, but it's hard to ignore now. I pull back the towel and try to examine my cut in the faint moonlight.

It's not stopped bleeding. That's the first thing I notice. The white material of the towel is completely covered in dramatic splatters of browns and reds. I bite my lip at the bloody sight of my wrist.

And then I remember something my Mother told me, such a long time ago, when my Father was still alive and the word "mother" still meant "care-taker".

"Use flour," she had said, smiling down at a six-year-old-me. She bent down and gently kissed the edge of my scraped knee. "It always stops bleeding."

I roll off the bed and weakly make my way downstairs, draping my fingertips through the shadows for support. Stumbling into the kitchen, I reach down and start rummaging through the draws. I vaguely remember Peeta leaving a bag around here once when Greasy Sae's granddaughter asked him how to make cupcakes.

I curse as I bang my knuckles against the edge of a counter, sending shocks down to my cut. I could turn on the light, but there is something about waking up in the darkness like this that has disorientated me, and I find that I'm afraid to disturb the quiet of tonight.

My fingers graze along something smooth and papery, and with a flush of relief I pull it out and bring it to the table where a square of light has fallen, illuminating the pale cast of my skin. I bury my fingers into the flour and dust it all along my cut. After packing on an unreasonable amount, I brush the snowy fall outs off the table, and put the bag of flour back in the draw. Without even intending to, Peeta has just saved my life again.

I climb back upstairs and into my bed, curling up into the cold blankets until I become a ting, shivering ball in my cocoon, and pray for sleep to take me quickly.

**Author's note:**

**Thank you for reading! Please feel free to review- I'd love to know what you guys actually think :) **


	3. Chapter 3- Dreams

**Chapter 3 - Dream**

**Author's note: **

**Firstly, I would just like thank those that left the kind reviews- this is the first proper long piece of writing I've done, including outside the fandom, so it really really means a lot to me. Sorry if that was sappy. **

**In other news, I was wondering if you guys prefer faster updates or better writing. I have a fair bit of this story already written, but after this chapter we'll be moving onto first-draft stuff, so if you would rather I spent more time editing it instead, please just let me know.**

**This is a wee bit of a filler chapter, but things will be picking it in the next two chapters. **

**Ok, end of essay. Hope you enjoy!**

A good dream. That night I have a good dream, and it's so, so sweet that for a moment I actually believe that I accomplished my mission to die and have gone to that place called Heaven.

I'm in a field; a beautiful, floral-smelling field, lush with thick green grass and quenched with drops of dew scattered across the landscape like diamonds. I hear laughter, the sound of it like a bubbling little brook of delight, and I look up, searching frantically for the sound because it's been so long since I heard a sound so full of joy. It awakens something buried deep within me, a sanctuary I'd forgotten existed.

And then I find the source. Two children, chubby little angels with grins as wide as their innocence and cheeks as pink as the colour of the sky when it's fallen in love, come running towards me, stumbling a little in their haste. I open my arms and they collapse into my embrace, clamping onto me; the girl swinging in my arms and the little boy wrapped around my leg, pressing giddy kisses onto my shin. I kiss the girls beautiful round face too, kiss them both as much as possibly can, and they giggle heartily in turn. It's contagious- I find myself laughing with them, and the sensation is like a river of hope gurgling up through me, trickling into all the haunted crevices and chasing away their heaviness like gold chases away poverty. I hold them tightly to me and smile, soaking in the happiness that seems to diffuse out of them and into the air.

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My eyelids flutter open, and I lie there just for a moment, in an incomparable bliss, before realizing where I am. Just a dream. Oh! Just a dream. I reach up to feel dampness on my face, and I choke back a sob. Just a dream, yes, but such a beautiful, _happy_, one that I wish I'd never woken up. It's been so long.

I exhale slowly and feel a twinge of pain shooting up my forearm. I bite my lip as I remember last night- for some reason, in the fresh, luminous, glow of morning, it's hard to believe that the horror I can't erase from my mind actually happened. I find that I'm glad though, that I didn't finish the job, if only for that dream.

And such a strange dream too. To dream of children, a boy and a girl that I've never even seen before, yet so familiar. They seem to have automatically filled out a place in my heart, a place I didn't even know existed, but one that fits them so perfectly it seems as though I was made to love them. It's such a warm adoration and protectiveness that I almost wish they existed, that they were really here in my life.

But I could never wish those children something so ill.

I sit up and minutely unwrap my arm. The towel is stained with a deep, ugly shade of red-brown, but the cut looks better, and the bleeding seems to have stopped. I hope it doesn't get infected.

I stare up at the blank cream wall across from me. I can't shake the lingering joy. It sits inside me, and it's like that feeling when you accidentally swallow a cough sweet, and the sharp, tingling relief starts to burn _there_ instead, just above your heart.

Something is burning inside me, but for the first time in a very long, it feels almost good. Ridiculously sweet, but good.

Something bubbles to the tips of my tongue, and I hesitate, as afraid as ever of the unknown.

Suddenly, there is a knock at my door, and frustration courses through me as if it has never before. I grind my teeth as I close my eyes and try to tame the volcano inside me.

"Katniss?" Greasy Sae starts to open the door, but I remember my arm and momentarily panic.

"I'll be down soon." I tell her. "Don't come in." There's a moment of hesitation before I hear her footsteps tread back down the hallway.

I glance down at my arm and decide right then and there that Peeta must never know.

Crawling out of bed, I pull on some clothes and fuss with my long-sleeved top until I am sure it completely conceals my cut. Then I head downstairs.

Peeta isn't there. Greasy Sae is at the stove, cooking something in a pan. I try to ignore the sour sinking feeling in my stomach.

She turns around when she hears me come in and smiles. "Where's Peeta?" I ask.

The door opens behind me just at that moment. I turn around to a flash of golden hair, pink cheeks, and the smell of almond and yeast. He is carrying a loaf of bread under his arm and a bag in his other hand as he stomps in, pausing to place his goods on the table.

There is a pregnant pause as he looks up and meets my eyes. My mouth goes dry.

"I'm sorry" I mutter eventually as I divert my gaze and inconspicuously adjust my sleeve. "About yesterday."

"It's ok." He says softly, and when I look up his features are kind, but weary.

He's trying so hard I realize. He's trying so hard to reach across the huge, foggy wall that has grown up between us, and he's just exhausted. I wonder vaguely if he's giving up.

"Here you go. "says Greasy Sae as she steers towards the table with a plate piled with hot pancakes, and the moment is broken as Peeta instantly turns to help her. He's better, I realize. Whatever the world on his side of the glass wall is like, it is a much better place to be than my own.

I can hear some birds making a fuss outside the window as we all eat in silence. As I swirl my fork around the edge of the plate, my gaze catches on the boy opposite me. He's wearing a dusty sky blue jumper today. I briefly wonder if he is aware of the favours it does for his eyes.

I look down before he catches me staring.

Once the dishes are cluttered away and Greasy Sae has bid goodbye, I find myself leaning against the counter again, my hipbones aligned roughly against the oven handle. Peeta hums, ever so quietly, as he swipes away the last of the mess, and so do the birds, their pretty songs mingling with the cool fresh air of morning.

And I feel it again. The burning in my chest now feels like one of the birds, fluttering around frantically inside my rib cage, struggling to be free. I rummage about inside me for the latch it's searching for, knitting my brows in frustration. And then all of a sudden, I find it.

The sound pours out of me like a waterfall, crashing down onto the cracked, parched landscape of my desert.

_This man I know_

_Has an apple tree he's hoping will grow_

It rushes over the crevices and emptiness like a wild creature, like a balm over a cut. I close my eyes and let it soar.

_Day after day_

_He waits and what does he see_

_Not one apple on the tree_

…I take a deep breath, one hand grasping onto the edge of the counter. There is a flush of lightness inside me, and I hurry to contain it before it goes out. Just like the desert, I must hurry to absorb what I can; one lone moment of relief, before the insufferable thirst returns.

I start when I spy Peeta, frozen in the doorway, a forgotten tea rag in his hand. His eyes are wide, bright and shining with something like…awe? I can't quite place the emotion in them, but his lips are tugged up in the corner, and for the first time in God knows when, I see Peeta truly smile.

I breathe in a ragged gasp, loudly cutting through the silence. He blinks, and his expression falters as he observes my reaction. Neither of us realized I was holding my breath.

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat, though his ruddy cheeks suggest otherwise. "I didn't mean… I, uh, didn't intend to…"

"It's fine." I say quietly, and he glances up at me from under his lashes. A moment of pleasant uncertainty passes between us, and there is nothing to hold him back from saying it this time, the birds outside chirpily cheering him on. He opens his mouth, hesitating.

"Could you maybe…" Peeta says. "Could you maybe finish the song?"

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I surprise us both by leading him through to the lounge. He sits down, cheeks glowing, on the edge of the sofa, and I stand by the window, from where I can see the swirling branches of the trees, where the birds I heard should be.

"Close your eyes." I instruct him, and his gaze runs over me with a foreign intensity, before he obeys. I immediately feel silly, and bite back the heat rushing to my face, before deciding to close my eyes too.

_This man I know_

_Has an apple tree he's hoping will grow_

_Day after day_

_He waits and what does he see_

_Not one apple on the tree_

It is easy to get lost in the sensation of hearing my own voice, of feeling the notes stream out of my chest like blood. My nervousness melts away like butter.

_This man I know_

_Waits all winter but the tree will not grow_

_'__Till late in spring_

_With still no fruit to be found_

_He goes out to chop it down_

_Lo and behold_

_Like a miracle swept in from the sea_

_Lo and behold_

_There's a fog so thick the man can't see_

_To cut the tree_

_Next morning he_

_All excited_

_He come running to me_

_Up there for all to see_

_Way up on a bough_

_Small and weak but hanging on_

_Somehow _

_Is a baby apple now_

The last high note rings through the room, filling it up with the sound of unspoken words. I open my eyes to find Peeta's wide open, and the blood instantly begins to burn in my face again.

The way he is looking at me is hard to explain. It brings to mind images of lost sailors seeing land through the fog after a storm, and of half-dead men finding an oasis in a desert. It's the way you look at your last sunset, and your first dawn.

He starts to give me a smile then, a sweet, dazzling smile, and it blossoms on his face like the first buttercup of spring, awakening a landscape of beauty.

I can't help but be reminded of my dream, and flush a little as I feel a bit of that warmth wash through me.

"That was a one-off, by the way." I say bluntly. I don't mean for it to be funny, but he chuckles anyway.

I purse my lips and drop my gaze, watching the way the sunbeams skitter across the wood panels, and my bare feet.

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You would not believe what it's like.

I feel as though I understand my mother better, I decide one day as I rock back and forth in a little ball on my bed. I do not forgive her, no, but I understand.

It's been three something weeks since we came back to Twelve that I realize this. About 70% of my time has been spent staring into space.

I always figured falling into depression would be just like falling into a big, black hole dug into the ground. Sure, it sucks, but there are worse things in the world. After all, since you can't get back out, chances are no one is going to really bother you down there. You just get used to the monotony.

But I was wrong. Because that is not what it's like. At all.

Because you see, once you fall into that hole and get past that horrible, spineless rush of succumbing to the greater forces of gravity, you suddenly realize that there is a hell of a lot of time to think inside that great, big pit.

It's all you do.

Every moment of every hour of every day of every year you spend, sitting there, thinking. You think about life and loss and purposelessness. You think about torture and guilt and crying and self-worth and everything bad there is possibly to think about- particularly yourself. And when you think too much, you go mad.

I would compare it to a journey. There are bricks, far too many, that you must carry on your shoulders, and there is the vast, grey road, looming out in front of you. There are no bathroom breaks. No other paths. Your only choice is to continue.

People have always commended those that have endured great suffering, but to endure it is not an act of bravery. It is an act of surviving. If there was another way, no matter the cost, I would take it.

I would do anything.

"You aren't doing well." Peeta says to me one day, when he finds me curled up on the windowsill in my bedroom for the third day in a row. I lift my head up slightly, staring at the brown stain on his left shoe. Normally, he doesn't start like this. Normally, he starts by coming over and murmuring soft words, before lapsing into a hopeless silence.

"You can't go on like this."

I look at him then, properly, and he levels me with a determined, even stare. The confidence in his expression irritates me.

"I can, and I will." I reply in a dead, steely voice, though I know he's right.

"No, you can't." My neck snaps up, and I glare at him, ready to throw some harsh, unfeeling comment towards him when he abruptly crosses the room in three steps and leans down to scoop me up in his arms.

"What are you doing?!" I screech, tearing at his sweater. "Put me down, you-" He gives up on being gentlemanly and throws me over his shoulder, so that my backside is raised to the ceiling and the only purchase my punches find is on his belt, slung low around his hips. I proceed to scream and curse and attack him for the rest of the journey, right up until a blast of icy wind whips up against my poorly-defended skin, and I am shocked into silence for a moment.

"Think you can be carried with some dignity without being tempted to tear my eyes out?" comes that condescending voice.

"I _think_ you can go to hell, you selfish, inconsiderate brute."

He pulls me over so that I fall into the cradle of his arms again, and I suddenly find myself face to face with those startlingly clear, blue eyes.

"You didn't really mean that." He whispers softly, and I can feel the warmth of his breath wash over my jaw.

I stay silent for the rest of the journey.

Eventually he lays me gently down on a hard, wooden chair, and I realise we are in his kitchen.

"What are we doing here?" I ask cautiously.

"We," he says much too cheerfully. "Are baking."

He goes over to a long, marble counter and starts pulling out ingredients and utensils from various draws.

"I can't bake." I say.

"Well, I can teach you." He smiles warmly at me, and I frown.

He brings over bowls and cartons of eggs, and even I what I think is a banana, a luxury so rare I had hardly seen it before going to the Capitol.

He shows me different mixtures and measurings, demonstrating tricks and what I am sure are perfectly interesting explanations of the artistic meaning behind flavour, but the moments that I find myself most aware of are the ones where he is quiet, and I find my gaze tracing the curves of his arms as he works, running through the golden strands of hair that are getting too long, and observing the intensity in his eyes as he concentrates.

"Here," he says after a while, handing me a slice of a browned cake-like square. "Taste it."

I part my lips and take a bite, and feel my eyebrows lift. "Mm," I say through a mouthful of the cake. "What is this?"

"It's banana bread." He replies, a gratified smile lingering on his lips, his cheeks rosy. "I'm guessing you like it."

I nod absentmindedly, staring at a grain of sugar on his top lip. Banana bread. I suppose I've had bananas on their own, or in sweet sauces before, but this has a homey, unique flavour to it. Comfort food, my Father might have said. It's the kind of thing that makes you feel safe.

I look up at Peeta, seeing his eyes glisten under the light as he smiles at me, and decide then that, no matter how strange this day, the flavour of banana bread will now always be inseparable from him.

We sit there in the faint sunlight, chewing the desert together in a silence. I look over at Peeta, who appears so tranquil, and I have to wonder if there is a battle raging through him like there is in me. Am I the only one in this relationship who is always so uncertain?

But for better or worse, I can't bring myself to suffer silently. The quietness that has fallen between us seems to have been carved out just for me, just for these words to be said.

And there are some battles that I don't want to win.

"I don't know what to do." I whisper, and I feel his gaze arrest me.

It's not a lot, maybe, just a handful of clumsy words pieced together, but having seen what I've seen, and done what I've done, I know that he will hear right through to what I really mean.

We sit there in perfect understanding for a moment, and I watch the sun go down in the few seconds we have to bathe in mutual empathy.

I hear his intake of air as Peeta takes a deep breath, and he rubs his neck before looking at me. "Katniss…" he begins. "Can you do something for me?"

I look up at him and search those eyes, watching a mixture of desperation and hope and something else swirl through their pools.

I tip my head slightly.

"Could you please call Dr. Aurelius?"

I blink. That was not the response I was expecting.

"Why would I call him?" I huff.

"Katniss, it helps," Peeta says, his gaze locking onto mine. "He did a lot for me. Please, just try."

I open my mouth to protest, but his eyes are so bottomless and deep that I find myself drowning in the emotion I see there, and before I realise what I'm doing, I nod.

"Ok." I breathe, and he reaches over to take my hand.

**Author's note:**

**Song is "The Tree" from the "Me Nobody Knows". Music by Gary William Friedman and lyrics by Will Holt. **

**Ok! I'll be uploading chap 4 as soon as possible, thank you for reading and please review if you have a second! Thank you :)**


	4. Chapter 4- Crying Glass

**Hey! As always, thanks for all the reviews and anyone who follow/faved this story! It's been a wee while, but here is Chapter 4. Urgh, I've been writing Chap 9 and just looking back on these first few chapters makes me cringe, so I am eternally grateful to everyone who has had the patience to read them. **

**Okay, enough "waffling", as my English teacher calls it. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 4- Crying Glass**

Although I would probably never admit it to him, the very next day I decide to follow Peeta's suggestion.

It wasn't my intention- in fact I wasn't sure if I'd even manage to ever keep my promise, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, the gloomy darkness drew me under again, and each second began to feel like a year.

Pain does funny things to people.

After locating the number and enduring more than a few unhelpfully cynical thoughts, I manage to dial in the number. I'm in the study, the only room with a telephone, and I lean back against the mahogany desk, drumming my fingers on the shiny surface as I wait nervously for the phone to be picked up. There is brring-brring, and then I hear a man's voice pipe up through the earpiece.

"Katniss!" it says. "You called. Finally."

Already he has said more words to me than I ever heard him utter my entire time in the Capitol. It is both a little unnerving and slightly irritating. I bite back a snappy response.

"Yes."

"Thank goodness. How are you doing?"

"How do you think?" I reply dully, internally cursing myself for listening to Peeta.

"Do you want help Katniss?" He says after a pause, and I feel my eyebrows lift to the ceiling. Who knew the quiet, insignificant doctor from the Capitol could be so…blunt?

No, I'm tempted to reply, but something makes me hold my tongue. Do I need help? That is obvious, although I'm not sure there is anything left in this world that can save me. But do I want help?

It's funny how, once you are immersed in the sadness for a while, you no longer think of it as the enemy. It is like pulling yourself out of a cold bath- unpleasant in, but once you try to get out you discover the prospect of staying where you are not wholly undesirable. I understand how it is, that after a whole night of courting the darkness, one might come to loathe the dawn.

"I've learnt not to expect what I want." I tell him, and the phone line descends into silence.

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I keep talking to Dr. Aurelius. Not because I believe that he can cure me, but because it makes sense. You are ill. You must see a doctor.

I keep listening to Peeta too. Sometimes he stays a little while after breakfast or dinner, simply accompanying me in my solitude, and I don't question that anymore. It's just who he is.

Though it isn't always easy. How can I help but wonder about what is going through his mind when our memories are eating me alive at night? Images of shining pearls, warm nights on trains, and lips that taste of melting sugar, swirl around and around my head; sometimes at the back, but sometimes right up in the forefront of my mind, until they are all I can see.

"Well, I suppose it would only be natural to get a little confused when a boy confesses he has spent his whole life loving you, only to proceed to strangle you, and top it all off by planting some bleeding Primroses in your garden," I sometimes whisper to myself in hushed angry tones, when everything finally stops spinning beneath me.

But if I'm honest, my heart and mine seem to be two completely different entities these days.

"How is Peeta doing?" I eventually wind up asking Dr. Aurelius, halfway through one of our phone calls.

"I'm not entitled to give you that information, Katniss." He says, and I close my eyes.

"Look." I tell him. "No one else will. No one else will tell me anything about him! I have a right to know. He's my-"

But then I get all caught up, because I do not know what he is, except that he is certainly not mine.

"I think you should try and spend some time with him." Dr. Aurelius says, and I blink.

"We spend time together." I say.

"No," Dr. Aurelius replies. "He spends time with you. You have not displayed any interest in spending time with him."

"Of course I'm interested in him." I exclaim.

"But you haven't displayed it. The boy isn't a mind reader. He is having a hard enough time figuring himself out, let alone you."

I grit my teeth and have to clench and unclench my fist around the phone wire. Sometimes I'm not sure why I even bother with talking to Dr. Aurelius. How he got this job in the Capitol is beyond me.

"Well, when I get over my desire to commit suicide, I will make sure that that is the first thing I accomplish." I say in a measured voice, and then put the phone down.

Instantly, I feel bad. Shame washes through me like sour poison, and I take a deep breath. Does it ever pass?

My eyes drift up to the clock above the doorway, and I frown. Peeta should be here by now.

A glance out the window tells me it is already dark, and a tight little ball of anxiety starts to spin in my stomach. He's never been late before.

I sit around and wait for a while, trying to bury my mind in something else, but I can't, and my eyes keep fluttering up to the clock as I shred a tissue in my hands. One minute passes. Two. Twenty minutes have passed since our designated dinner time.

I look across the road and squint through the black, spotting a light coming from his kitchen. Something isn't right.

I slowly stand up, and swallowing back a thick lump of apprehension, grab my boots and pull them up over my bare feet.

The walk to his house is brief, but it feels so much slower than it should. It's almost like I'm stuck in my nightmare again- wading through a fear as thick as mud, my heart rate speeding in my throat. The night sweeps past me tantalizingly, sinister whispers hissing in my ear. I shake my head and reach for the door.

It's empty. I blink until I see a faint yellow glow splayed across the floor, and with a familiar hunter's tread, I follow its path.

It takes me to the entrance to the kitchen, and I can hear panting as I clench my fists, before turning the corner.

Peeta. He is lying on the ground, his face concealed from my view, his knees curled up in a defensive posture. Even from where I stand, I can see that every muscle in his body is strung tense, and his breathing is audibly laboured. And then I notice the glass shattered around his body.

No one told me he was still having episodes. I can feel my heart stutter in my chest, before galloping on.

I spot another chair on its side in the corner, and I daren't breathe. He could kill me. If he hears me, he will hurt me. There is no one else around.

I take a step forward.

He doesn't react as I draw closer to him, and when he is a few feet away, I deliberately lower to my knees, holding my palms towards him.

"Peeta," I whisper. "Peeta, it's me."

His finger twitches unnaturally. I try again.

"Peeta, it's Katniss. I'm here. It's not real. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real." My voice does not sound like my own.

There's a low moan, and then he sobs, and I can see the tears glistening from his cheeks.

I dig my nails into my palm so hard they leave half-circles and lean over to him, ever so gently, reaching out to touch his arm. I hear another sob, a splintered, half-strangled wail, and in that moment my resolve crumbles into sand, and hijacking be damned, I crawl over to him and wrap my arms around his shaking torso, burying my fingers in that golden hair. "Ssshh," I breathe. "Ssshh, you're safe now."

His sobs start increasing rapidly, and I panic. I can feel his fingers digging into my waist, and I take a deep breath, before sitting up and pulling myself up onto his lap, my legs falling apart at his hips. When his hold on me only gets tighter, I relax a little.

I should probably be disturbed about my own lack of self-concern, but I'm not.

I can feel his own tremors run through me, and he gasps for air in a manner which reminds me of drowning. I feel like I'm drowning just watching him.

But then I feel his heartbeat, thudding purposefully against my chest, and despite being somewhat uneven, and much too fast, it anchors me. It's probably wrong, depraved even, to feel the warmth that I do diffuse through my body, spreading out from the focal point where his heart pulses through the layers and skin, and against my own. But I don't fight it- everything about this feels _right_.

I've never been one for comforting- the process has always left me feeling unnatural and awkward- but not right now. He needs me. I'm not good for him as a whole, and mostly I just drag him down, but in this moment I am needed. And that is what I'm clinging to.

His head hits my shoulder and I feel his hands tremble at my hips, his breathing growing erratic. My mouth opens, an instinct, and the words begin to pour out unbidden.

_In the darkness_

_Don't forget the sweetness_

_That lent good love to thee_

_In the shadows_

_Don't forget the widow_

_I'd become if you left me_

_Oh sweet child_

_Don't cry now_

_Oh sweet melody_

_Oh sweet love_

_Don't hurt now_

_Now I am here for thee_

I feel his body relax against mine and his breathing grow easier, the tension seeping out of him and into the air. But when I press my lips against his hair, his head lifts, and I momentarily panic, before seeing the freshly spilt tears on his cheeks. He won't look at me.

"Katniss," he says, his voice breaking, and then his head drops back down to my shoulder. His whole body starts shaking with the fierceness of his sobs, and I hold onto him tighter, my hands fisting up in the material of his jumper.

"You weren't…supposed…to…" he tries to say, but I hush him and hold him to my chest.

"It's over," I murmur against his ear. "It's over."

It's only when I choke a little on the last word that I realise I'm crying too, and if the moment was more forgiving I might laugh. But I don't, and we cling to each other, a stupid, broken, lovesick pair, rocking back and forth on his kitchen floor. My gaze trails over the broken bits of glass scattered around us, and it's then that I realise that the huge wall that was between us has finally been shattered too, and for the first time in much too long, I can really feel him. I feel his pain, tugging at my heartstrings, and his heavy shame, his desperation. I can taste the bitterness in his tears, and I can read the hesitations in his sentences. I feel him, right between my lungs, and I cry, cry for everything that we have both become.

You might think it would weigh you down, taking a piece of someone else's pain as well and making it your own, but the truth is it doesn't. It makes you feel less alone, less frightened, as if you have now a lamp on this lonely road. It gives you hope.

"Don't leave." He whispers after a while, and I want to tell him that of course I won't, that I can't, that I've missed him so, so much. But words have never been my friends, and so instead I lean down, trailing my nose down his body until I am right above his heart, and then I rest my ear over it and listen.

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**Author's note: **** Just a heads up: the rating of this fic may or may not change in the far future. I'll let you know if it does though.**

**As always, feedback is appreciated! :) and thank you for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5- Catching Flies

**Chapter 5- Catching Flies**

We don't talk about it much, but it seeps into every little action that is required to fill up our days.

We're closer. When I come down for breakfast in the morning, I can always meet his eyes, sometimes even affording a smile. A little more conversation fills up the empty rooms when it's just us two, and there are no more awkward breaks, a cool, fogged up barrier in our way. He's changed, but then so have I, and we are both used to making do.

I wish I could say that it is suddenly easier, or that one morning I just wake up and rediscover happiness, brushing off all my demons like a distant dream. But I don't, and I learn that that isn't how it works. It works slowly, methodically and painfully precisely, each piece of my soul being carefully picked up off the ground and examined, before being deemed fit to be put back inside me.

But there are mornings that are a little easier than others, and moments when Peeta can persuade a careless grin across my face. But then the bad days come, like a whirlwind, a hurricane, and my gentle dandelion seeds are simply blown away, blitzed into a mess of screams and cries, tears dripping across my cheekbones and claws tearing at my face. I'm getting better, Dr. Aurelius tells me, but it isn't half-easy.

And yes, there are times when it is just as bad as that night, the night that gave me the scar I am always so careful to conceal, and the lure to give up again can be just so strong.

But I don't.

And then I get the letter.

It comes mid-afternoon, and I can't ignore it like I normally do because Peeta is there, and he goes up and picks it up for me. He frowns when he reads the address, and then places it in front of me on the wooden table.

My eyes flicker to my right and scan over my name. _Miss Everdeen_, it reads. I do not recognize the neat, slanted hand-writing.

I pick it up in my hands, and it is heavier than an envelope should be. My fingertips trace over the slight bulge in the back.

I pull the envelope open, and dip in two fingers to retrieve a pretty pink shade of paper, with more of the unfamiliar hand-writing scrawled all over it.

_Dear Miss Everdeen,_

_I know that we never really got well acquainted with each other, and I realise I may not be the most desirable friend to have, but times are rough, and I would like you to know that I am here if you ever need me, regardless. I suspect the war has united many of us in mourning. _

_I dearly hope you are well. Or as well as can be. I understand that you and Peeta were good friends with Finnick, and I must thank you for all you did for him. _

_In light of this I hope that it would be possible, if at some point convenient for you, you might come and see me, or me you. I perfectly understand if you do not, or cannot, do so. Please do not feel obliged in anyway. _

_Wishing you the best,_

_Annie _

I look over at Peeta, and his curious eyes meet mine. "Annie." I say, and his eyebrows rise.

I rummage around in the envelope until the thing I felt earlier falls out into my hands. It's made of glass, and has a swirling elegancy in its shape. Holding it closer, I see that it is actually a perfume bottle, the lid a huge, iridescent clam shell, the liquid inside a faint peach. I feel my mouth fall open.

"She's given me a…" I trail off, looking up at him, and his eyes are just as wide as mine.

"That's incredibly generous of her." He says, and then he smiles at me.

"Here, read it." I push the letter towards him, and while he reads, I unhook the clam shell, pressing my fingertip to the bottle opening and briefly tipping it upside down. I bring my finger to my nose and sniff.

It smells of the ocean. But not just that- there is something sweeter, more feminine. I inhale again and catch a whiff of lavender and vanilla orchid. I close my eyes, and I can picture the waves, crashing into foamy white embraces on the rocks, the clear water sparkling against a pink backdrop. That's what it smells like. Freedom.

When I open my eyes, I see Peeta watching me.

"Can I?" he asks, and I stare in confusion until he gestures to the bottle.

"Oh, um…" I hesitantly hold out my fingers to him, and he takes my palm in his large, warm grip, before leaning down to smell the perfume. His lips lightly brush against my fingers as he gives me my arm back, and combined with the slightly saccharine scent that still lingers in the air, the action makes me feel a little light-headed.

"So…" Peeta's voice snaps me back to reality, and I blink.

"Sorry?" He is watching with a slightly questioning gaze, though the corner of his lips turns up.

"What do you think?" He says. I breathe out slowly through my nose and stare at the envelope.

"I don't know. I'm not allowed to leave Twelve, but I…" I look up at him for help, though we're both a pair of lost sheep.

"…Maybe Dr. Aurelius can pull some strings?" he suggests, and I almost scoff a little. But we both know telling Annie no isn't really an option.

So I finally gather the courage to call Dr. Aurelius. I could have asked Peeta to ask him, but I didn't particularly want to explain to Peeta the reason why I had snapped, and he would have undoubtedly gotten it out of me if I mentioned it.

Besides, I should apologise.

The phone rings for two, and then that familiar voice says, "Hello?"

"Hey," I say cautiously. "…It's Katniss."

"I know." He says. "What is it?"

I mean to apologise. I really do.

"Why didn't you tell me Peeta was still having episodes?"

There's a brief moment of silence, and then he replies in a somewhat professional tone.

"He specifically instructed me not to tell you. I have to respect his wishes." Not to tell me? I frown, and that's when it hits me.

Because I'd been so wrapped up in my own prickly netting of depression, of selfishness, that I'd been too blind to see what I should have. That Peeta's been hurting too. And that he's been hiding it from me- probably because he doesn't want to make things harder than they already are.

Stupid,_ stupid_ boy.

And stupid me! I bang my fist down on the desk in heat, and curse loudly when a shock of pain rushes through my knuckles.

"Are you ok?" Dr. Aurelius asks

"Great." I mutter under my breath. "Was there any other reason you had for calling?" He asks after a moment.

"Yes." I tell him. "…Do you know Annie Cresta?"

"…Yes," He replies slowly. "…She won the 69th Hunger Games, didn't she?"

"Yes. I received a letter from her today. She says she'd like to see me."

There is a moment of silence.

"I…don't know if that would be possible. I'm not sure her health would allow her to journey all the way to an unfamiliar district. And as for you…in theory I suspect the trip might do you good, but it's unlikely you would be approved to leave."

My shoulders slag.

"Are you sure she can't come down?"

"Pretty sure." He confirms. "Last time her reports were studied she was not fit for such."

I bite my lip and stare out of the dusty window opposite me. It's starting to feel like a prison. I'm a small animal, caught up in my own well-laid snare.

"Katniss," Dr. Aurelius sighs, a sympathy seeping into his tone. "…I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," I whisper into the phone, and watch as the first raindrop lands on the glass pane.

I wait five days.

But, for what it's worth, they don't pass too slowly.

It's not that depression always means I'm sad, I learn to understand. It's just that it's always there. A dark undertone, on top of which a thin layer of content or amusement can be painted on. But beneath the tones of yellow and lilac and orange, it's presence is always detectable, a constant in mood.

Sometimes it scares me.

But there is a comfort in a steady life, right after such a destructive, fast-paced fire. I'm learning to enjoy what I can of the slow-burn.

And it's a relief, whenever Greasy Sae busies herself with a kindness that can't yet be returned, or I catch Peeta's eye beside the hot, crackling fireplace, and I realise I have an eternity to decipher the intensity in his eyes. It's a relief, when nothing more is expected of me.

The only thing that concerns me in these moments is the fear that they'll leave me soon.

"Katniss!" The doctor's voice greets me, unusually enthusiastic even for him. "It's all sorted!"

"What is?" I ask, though it's a little hard to sound nonchalant when I am about to burst from anticipation.

"The trip! It's been discussed, and basically, the conclusion is that you are free to go, as long as you are accompanied."

"Accompanied? I'm not taking Haymitch." I warn him.

"Not necessarily. Peeta, I suppose, could work. Wasn't he invited anyway?"

"But he still…he's still…" I struggle with the words, which are stubbornly unwilling to come out.

"He's not a danger Katniss." Dr. Aurelius says quietly.

"But he still has episodes." I point out, my voice blunt.

"But he isn't dangerous. Not anymore."

My mouth falls open in a "O" as I understand. I slowly release the breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Ok…"

"Okay?"

I allow myself small smile.

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We don't have much to pack, so it really doesn't take long before I find myself sitting on one of the plush grey seats, staring out of the train window. We called Annie before we left, and though she seemed surprised to hear from us, she did seem grateful. And we bid goodbye to Greasy Sae, and a drunk, forlorn Haymitch, whom Peeta confessed he had been checking up on every week.

I swear to myself, as the trees outside begin to blur into an indistinguishable landscape of muted greens, that I will help take care of him the minute I learn to take care of myself.

Peeta sits opposite me, those blue eyes sparkling with something like excitement. Because the only way to travel between the districts is by the old storage trains, it will take something like a few days to get to 4.

There is something sweet in my mouth, a lightness in my chest, and I can't help but feel a surge of something like delight rush through me. _We're going away_, I think, like a giddy little girl. _Finally to be free._

I conjure up the image of blue waves crashing against battered rocks, streams of peach and gold casting their magic upon the tanned skin of sand. I want to be like that, I think rashly. I want to be embraced in the wildness of the ocean.

My eyes focus on Peeta again, and I see that he's watching me, his gaze fixed on the tiny grin that I didn't realise had crept up on to my lips. When he sees me looking, he meets my eyes and smiles back.

"Excited?" he says.

I shrug uncomittedly, looking over my shoulder at the greenery and vegetation I've known all my life race past me. The train itself is quite empty, what with the system being so new, and there are rooms provided for journeys longer than a day. A thought occurs to me, and I'm surprised when I feel my heart rapidly skip a beat and palms get sweaty. I don't understand. This should be no big deal.

Oh, but it is.

"Peeta…" I start, my throat suddenly dry, making it hard to swallow. He looks up at me.

"I, um…was wondering…" The words refuse to leave me, clinging to my tongue in terror. _Just spit it out! _A voice inside me growls.

"…If you would like to sleep with me?" The moment it leaves my voice he blinks, a fiery blush flooding his entire face. It takes me a little longer to realise my mistake.

"No! I mean- not like _that_!" I hasten to explain, though I can feel a slight tingling in my cheeks. "Peeta!"

"Oh…um, sorry, yeah I know." He says, clearing his throat. "Sorry, um, I wasn't…uh…."

I shake my head and stare out the window again, face hot. Seriously, why would he even assume that?

"So?" I say, once I am sure my voice is fully composed. I don't look away from the glass.

"So…? Oh!" he replies, catching on. "Um, yes- of course."

I vaguely nod, but there is a tight little ball of anticipation and fear clenching and unclenching in my stomach. I shake my head slightly, dismissing the unsensical feeling.

We are provided dinner- nothing particularly fancy, just rolls and salad and a few slices of ham- and then we prepare for bed.

It is no momentous event. There is nothing really awkward or romantic about the whole affair, despite my slip up earlier. But it does send a shoot of warmth through me, spreading through my chest like molten rock. Peeta is a comfort, and I'm surprised how grateful I am that I will not have to endure this night, if none other, alone.

He disappears into the bathroom down the hall to clean up, and I sit cross-legged on the bed, wearing my leggings and a thin, papery shirt, as I run my fingers through my unplaited hair. The room is small but neat, with few decorations or embellishments, save for the rich plum covers and pillows of the bed. There is a window on my left, a wide frame accompanied by a pair of curtains embroidered with poppies, and from it I watch the evening landscape speed by us.

I turn around when I hear the door open. Peeta walks in, toweling dry his darkened curls, which are even curlier when damp. He gives me a small smile, and goes to hang the towel on a chair, while I snuggle under the covers, waiting for him. Soon enough, his arms are around me again, holding me gently, as if I am made of glass.

I rest my hand over his, feeling the warmth pulse through me. He smells of shampoo, but also of snowy flour and spilt honey, and something distinctly natural, _Peeta_. I breathe in deeper, finally feeling a heartbeat that is not my own, and as his body starts to relax into slumber behind me, I know that this night, for the first in many, I needn't be afraid.

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**Thanks for reading :)**


	6. Chapter 6- Full Moon

**Chapter 6- Full moon**

**Hey! So it's been a while (Hehe...) but here is chapter 6! I've not been totally unproductive- there is a snippet of "Dusk" (chapter 1) from Peeta's POV called "Awaking in the Dark", so if you have time please go check it out on my profile. I might do some more scenes from his POV later, but for now, hope you enjoy.**

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The very next morning, I plummet like a bomb right back into the deep end.

I refuse to get out of bed. Peeta tries, to no avail, to get me to eat breakfast, but I barely touch even the water. Instead I sit there, an unmoving statue, staring out the window.

I don't know why it attacks when it does. But I am always entirely defenseless; an easy victim, unable to withstand the crush.

It just hurts.

No breaks. No relief for me.

I sit there for so long, so silent that I can almost feel the rays of worry radiating off Peeta, who sits with me, sometimes talking, sometimes stressed and quiet. But I can't do it, not even for him.

It feels like I have to scream, but I've suddenly lost my voice box. So instead of my mouth, my soul screams, cries, tears itself to shreds, moist with anguished tears that refuse to escape from my bone dry eyes, and I die inside.

But quietly. So very quietly- like a woman starved of joy. I imagine my body thin, ribs easily visible, an emaciated corpse rotting away in her sick bed while her loved ones clutch to her hands desperately, as if that can stop her from fading away.

_It never grows old._

When Peeta finally leaves, I barely register his disappearing footsteps, barely wander where he's gone. It seems natural for him to go. Everyone else already has.

But he comes back, and when he does it is dark out. There are no stars in the sky.

"Katniss?" he says softly, his voice rough. I blink.

"Can I show you something?" I slowly direct my gaze onto him, staring blankly.

"Please?" he says. "I think you might like it."

I don't move for a moment, but then weakly, I reach over, my stiff muscles groaning, to take his out-stretched hand. He gently helps me to my feet, and then pulls me along carefully, like a little child. My feet move of their own accord.

When we get to the small communal living room, it is totally empty. He guides me to a well-hidden corner, and then I see it.

"It's a den." He tells me, smiling softly, with no judgment in his round eyes.

I look at it. In reality it is a pile of mismatched rugs and bed sheets, stretched over to create a sort of cave-like structure, and at the corner there is a small space through which I presume I am supposed to enter.

"Do you like it?" he asks. I nod tightly, my breathing slightly laboured. I focus on the warmth of gratitude, spreading through my veins like hot chocolate, as if if I try hard enough, I can project the emotion to him.

I drop to my knees, and slowly crawl through the entrance. I feel about five again. When I get inside, I realise there are more pillows and rugs scattered everywhere, like a nest, and there are fairylights strung across the roof. I shuffle over into a corner and curl up, a bird with broken wings.

Peeta's face appears in the entrance. "You ok in there?" he asks. I give a tiny nod.

"May I come in?"

My eyes meet his, and I nod again.

It's a tight squeeze in the small space, but I don't mind. I like the presence of another human, his body heat enveloping me with those large, strong arms, sealing me in an intimacy. He feels close.

The throbbing in my heart has not yet stopped, and I doubt it will today, or even for the next week, but I look up at the fairylights that sparkle above me, lighting the room with a sort of magical, mauve glow, and I hold onto the thought that for tonight, Peeta has given me the stars.

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When we arrive at 4, I momentarily believe we have stepped into another world.

It's not like 12. We saw very little in our time here during the victory tour, and what we did only hinted at the wonders that this district possesses. The war has not affected it like 12.

We barely turn the corner of the small station when the breath of the ocean hits us. I inhale the cold, salty breeze, and open my eyes to a glittering array of indigo waves, stretching out along the entire coast and beyond. The sun is still high in the sky, beaming down on us, and I grip my suitcase tighter as we step into a slice of shallow sunshine. I turn to look at Peeta, suppressing a smile.

It quickly falls off my lips.

Something magical happens to Peeta in the sunlight of 4. His eyes twinkle, alight with vivaciousness and sunbeams that reach right down into the depths of those sapphires, and polish them brighter. His skin is cream and honey, soft and beckoning under the blue sky, and the syncopated blasts of wind rake wildly through his golden hair, mussing it with an artist's spontaneity. His lips are parted, healthy and red like apple skin.

I struggle to tear my eyes from him.

In fact, I barely look away until he catches me staring on the rattling mini bus, and my head whips around comically. I can feel his gaze coaxing the warmth onto the back of my neck. Thankfully, he is too kind to say anything.

Which sort of makes it worse. Because, of course, I do not look anything of that type of pretty underneath the sun.

When we finally arrive at Annie's, the first thing I realise is that she too, lives in a Victor's house. It's an obvious observation, but the thought never occurred to me before. Though I suppose, being a career district, she had a lot more company for a while.

But then, so did I.

She is leaning against the doorway, her lacy white dress fluttering in the breeze, her gaze lost in the distance. The Victors' Village in 4 is not like the one in 12- with white, smoothed walls and rounded edges, it is situated right by the sea, the foamy white fingers of the ocean almost stretching out to claim the front yard.

When we step off the minibus and have collected our luggage, Annie notices us and an aged, but genuine smile lifts her cheeks. She strolls down the front path to greet us, and it's only when I brush back a sweaty strand of my hair and am starting to smile that I spot the way her hand rests protectively over her belly, or the slight but definite bump that protrudes from her small body.

I feel my mouth drop open. "Annie…" I gasp quietly, my brain struggling to catch up through the shock. How long ago was it? Really? Since, we've been back I've lost all sense of time, and 13 feels like a distant memory, another lifetime's happenings. But it can't have been _that_ long if…

"Hello." She says quietly. "Would you like to go inside first?"

She smiles at us warmly as she busies herself around the kitchen table, a teapot in her hand. A quick glance at Peeta confirms his mutual astonishment, so I summon my voice first.

"How…" I clear my throat noisily. "How…um, far along are you?"

She brings over the two steaming cups of tea and puts them down, before leaning back against the sink. "Well…four months." The smile that seems to be permanently sown across her face never falters.

Peeta coughs then, and fumbles for the words that are both wandering through our minds. "Is it, um, his-"

"Yes." Annie says briskly, avoiding our gazes. Then she shakes herself and looks up again. "Thank you so much for coming, by the way." She smiles again, but this one is true with gratitude.

There's a slightly awkward pause. We didn't get a chance to know Annie much in 13, and now we will be staying with her for 5 days.

"Would you like to see your rooms?" she asks eventually.

As we're lead through numerous corridors, I can't help but notice how tidy the whole place is. There isn't a speck of dust in sight, and I can't help but marvel at how clean she has kept everything, when I, in my grief, could barely leave my bed.

We are brought to the doorway of a large bedroom, and when I enter I see that the room is huge.

"You can sleep here if you'd like, Katniss." Annie tells me, a pink flush in her cheeks.

In the center of the room there is a vast, four poster bed, with rose gold sheets draping down over the mattress. A filmy white canopy dances in front of an open window, and beside it is an aged, turquoise rocking chair. There is a matching closet against another wall, and huge, intricate dream catcher adorns the other.

"Thank you." I breathe.

While Annie shows Peeta his room next door, I begin to unpack. Just as I'm putting away the last of my shirts there is a knock on the door, and then Annie's head peers round the corner.

"Are you ok?" she asks, coming in. "I was just coming to give you your towel."

"Thank you," I tell her and she lays it down on my bed. She is just turning to leave when I call out. "Annie!"

I'm not sure why I do it. I've never been one for socialising, and conversation with anything other than loved ones is always awkward at best, but something in me has softened since arriving at Annie's.

Or maybe it just takes one broken soul to recognize another.

"How are you?" I ask, wiping my palms on my trousers. She smiles and her mouth parts as if to say "I'm fine," but then she catches herself, and slowly, the smile slips off her face.

She sits down on the bed in front of me, and her shoulders slump as I go to sit beside her.

"Not so well." She whispers eventually. "…I keep waiting for it to sink in, to wake up and not expect to find him beside me… I don't know what to do."

I ignore my uncertain disposition then and lean over, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, trying to let her know that in my heart, I am here for her. That it's okay to be ashamed. She goes limp, and clutches my arm as the silent sobs start to shake through her, her fingernails digging into my sweater. "It's so hard," she confesses under her breath, voice breaking. "It is so hard. And now, with the baby and everything…I just- I just can't do it."

I hold her, words escaping me. There are some things, I suppose, that can't be said. So I feel them for her instead, because I know what it can mean to be understood, to know that you are not alone. And we cry together, for the friend and the lover we have lost, the man that could charm the world with his lopsided smirk, and shatter their hearts with his untold secrets. That could wield anything and everything with a trident, and could swim so deep beneath the surface of the ocean that for a moment one might think that he was drowning. And he was, and he did, and never, not for one moment it seems, did he stop himself from loving.

And I've seen enough of bravery to know that that is the most valuable kind.

Eventually she pulls back a little, wiping the saltwater from her eyes. "I don't know if I'll make it." She says after a while, her gaze trained on a spot outside the window.

"Of course you will," I tell her, trying to summon some encouragement into my voice. "It'll…fade, and things will get better- easier for you."

She shakes her head, eyes unfocused, and rolls up her long, white sleeves.

Like the lines of a book, there is row after row of burnt red typography, sliced into the pale marble of her skin.

"Oh, Annie," I whisper, horror transfiguring my tongue.

"I'm sorry." She murmurs through a haze of fresh tears. "I don't mean to drop this on you."

I have nothing to say to that, so I hold her tight and try not to think of the scar on my wrist, and of anything at all.

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At dinner we all gather around the modest wooden table in the kitchen, and enjoy one of the best meals of my life.

After Annie showed me her scars, we sat in a loaded silence until we heard Peeta come noisily out of the shower, and were jerked back into the demands of reality. Annie went downstairs to prepare dinner, a feast that had clearly been the focus of many hours of preparation.

We stuff ourselves with lemon clams and salted muscles and green tea rice until none of us can even stand, and then we wash it all down with a rose-tinted wine as we watch the sunset stain the sky a colour to match.

"It'll be a clear night tonight." Annie says quietly. "You'll be able to see the stars."

I look at her and offer a gentle smile, but her gaze remains foggy. I'm reminded how lonely it must get in this big, empty house.

"Tomorrow I was wondering if you two would like to go for a walk." Annie begins softly. "You don't have to, but I know quite a pretty little place if you'd like to explore."

I meet Peeta's eyes and we share a smile. "Sounds good." He says.

Peeta insists on helping Annie with the dishes and tidying up while I go and have a shower, so I bid them both goodnight and make my way up to the bathroom. The air here is thick, humid and as encompassing as being underwater, so my clothes are already drenched in sweat, despite the cooling evening. I peel off my undergarments and stand beneath the pulsing showerhead, suppressing a shriek when I accidentally set it too cold. But the hot water relaxes me, undoing the tight knots in my back and reminding me to breathe. I scrub my face dry as I step out of the glass case and study myself in the mirror in front of me.

It's big enough that I can see my entire body, and I find myself letting the towel slip to the ground, leaving me bare.

My patch-work skin is particularly prominent under the yellow-ish lighting, parts of me still pink and raw, other parts tanned a golden brown, one of the few things I have left from my father. My nose is long and straight, my cheekbones angular and my eyes shiny and catlike in shape. My lips are full but cracked, with no cupid bow to add elegance to my otherwise sharp face. I'm no beauty, but if I look at myself in the right way, I can see something vaguely appealing about the combination.

I let my gaze wander.

I'm short. My legs are not blessed with length and grace, but with agility and speed. My frame is small, almost breakable, but my shoulders are wide and rectangular, thieving me of any femininity I might have otherwise possessed. My curves are minimal, my hips thin, my breasts small and insignificant.

I mutely turn away from the girl in the mirror. She bares no empathy for me.

I wrap the large towel around my form twice, and pad across the hallway to my bedroom, the wood rough beneath my soles.

The sun has almost disappeared from the darkening sky, black against the white material of my curtains. I set my towel across the back of the rocking chair, and in a suddenly childlike manner, run and fling myself onto the mattress. I'm still completely naked, and while part of me feels exposed and terrified at the possibility of anyone coming in, the other part of me revels in the feeling of fabric against bare skin. There is a certain freedom in being unclothed, a primitive glee.

I think of Peeta, who is probably next door, and am surprised when I don't blush. It's a different feeling than any other I've experienced before- a sort of heart fluttering, rich, burning sensation. I feel as though I've engaged in some sort of secret love affair when in reality I've done nothing at all.

Still, I wonder how he'd feel if he knew I was naked right now.

I sit up immediately and lean over for my pajamas, cheeks burning. _How could you think such a thing?!_ I scold myself, embarrassment squirming through me. _That was entirely inappropriate._

I dress myself in the modest long-sleeved top and trousers, and go to turn out the lights. It takes me about ten seconds of lying in the dark to realize my brain is refusing to turn off.

I watch the shadows pass over across the duvet and walls, coating the room into a landscape of greys. Sighing, I reach over and tug the covers off of me, dropping my feet to the floor. As silent as the darkness around me, I tiptoe over to the window.

A full moon. It shines bright, glowing like a lamp in a lighthouse across an ocean of space. I gaze up at it, letting the beams spill across my face. Annie was right- the stars are out tonight. I trace them with my fingertips, pretending each one is a moth.

But, I suppose, there are worse things to be burnt by than the moon.

Tonight, I am lonely. Tonight, I have no one but the stars to talk to, and no one but the pearl that lies between them to be seduced by. Tonight, I am not myself.

But it's been a long time since I have been.

So I pull back the cotton curtains and wrap them around my head and stare up out at the night, and I count all the different things it could mean to me.

**Author's note:**

**I've just gone back to school, so I might be writing less since we have exams that actually count this year (screams). Oh, and the rating of this is looking like it will change...I'm not entirely clear on the borderlines for these things but we'll see. Oh, I'm also looking for a Beta so if anyone is interested please PM me. And please review if you liked it :3**

**OK. thanks for reading. Ta x**


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